


ten years is a long time.

by guttersvoice



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Emetophobia, Gen, beardless au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26680822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guttersvoice/pseuds/guttersvoice
Summary: He's been away from home for a while.
Kudos: 8





	ten years is a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this when i finished the game in like.. what, 2016? but i found it and tidied it up recently. if it feels unfinished thats why, i guess?

The young man in the truck keeps shooting glances at him, and his expression is impossible to read. There’s something expectant there, and Noctis can’t figure out if he’s supposed to know this guy or pay him for his trouble and for gas. There is something familiar about him, though; something he can almost recognise in the shape his nose ought to be, if it hadn’t been broken and badly set. Something about his speech patterns, if not his voice. Maybe it’s just the familiarity of the Insomniac accent. He’s been away from home for a while.

Maybe it’s the fact that even though he isn’t openly acknowledging it for some reason, he clearly recognises Noctis. It’s no huge surprise for a Lucian citizen to recognise the prince, but he hasn’t even brought that up. Seems to be actively avoiding the fact. Bites his lip every time his gaze lands on Noctis’ face, and changes the subject, talking instead about the settlement they’re headed for, the power plant still functioning at Lestallum, the daemon species they pass that Noctis doesn’t recognise, anything but himself or his passenger.

Or what the fuck happened to the world.

He supposes that one’s obvious, though.

Hammerhead, when they pull up, is barely recognisable. It’s still there, same as it ever was, but between and around the familiar buildings so much more has been built up; ramshackle shelters clearly built in a hurry and reinforced over time. They’re tightly packed within a boundary line marked out by blindingly bright floodlights. Something like that wouldn’t keep the daemons out, and Noctis knows that whoever put them there would have known that, but it might dissuade them, and the peace of mind it could afford anyone living there would be invaluable.

There’s a creeping feeling, a catch in his throat he can’t quite name, the sense that he’s missing some vital piece of information, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

Noctis gets out of the truck, but the driver tells him to stay where he is before he can move out of the shadow of the vehicle. Says he needs to get the others ready.

He’s ashamed at how long it took him, when he realises who that means - not this man’s friends, but Noctis’ own. Who else? He doesn’t figure it out until a familiar voice speaks from behind him.

“Noct?”

He turns on instinct, ready to be at Prompto’s side in a flash, and - 

He can see Gladiolus and Prompto’s frozen expressions must reflect his own; beside them, Ignis’ hesitation reads almost as a stumble.

This can’t be right. 

Noctis’ throat feels dry.

He’d caught his reflection in the truck mirror, but he can’t stop himself from looking again, eyes flicking sideways to see his own face in the black metal. Same as ever. The tired, bed-headed, barely capable prince-turned-king, not quite ready for his twenties.

But the others -

When he speaks, it’s barely a croak.

“How long?” he asks. That creeping feeling - he can put a name to it now, and it’s dread. The answer to his question doesn’t even really matter. He already knows: too long.

They don’t respond, just staring at him. He could take this time to stare back; to look at how much they’ve changed, but he needs to know for sure. Nausea rises in his throat, but he wets his lips and presses again.

“How long has it been?” Noctis demands, hands curling into tight fists by his sides. Gladiolus opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, and he closes it again.

Ignis tuts, and pushes his glasses up his nose. That, at least, has not changed. It might have calmed Noctis down, if he couldn’t see the three of them - the new scars over the old; the unnamable weight to their posture; the - the age - the toll of time - illuminated stark under the artificial light. His stomach churns.

“It’s been ten years since you disappeared,” Ignis says. He’s using the clipped tone he falls back on when he’s nervous, like he knows how wrong things are without having to see the face in front of him.

Noctis throws up.

What comes up is just light, though - sticky and wet and pooling in his own shadow, but light. The crystal’s light; he knows as much. The same light he dissolves into every time he’s ever warped. It leaves a sticky-sweet residue in his mouth and clings to the inside of his throat. Light shouldn’t be liquid like that, he thinks - but light shouldn’t do a lot of the things he’s done.

Like skip out on ten years and not age alongside the people he left behind.

His ears are ringing. Some part of him registers hands on his shoulders and arms, on his back, helping him steady himself. Most of what he can focus on is trying to get rid of the last too-sweet tastes of the light in his mouth, unable to gather enough spit to manage it at all. Another, distant part of him apologises.

“I didn’t mean to,” he manages, struggling to prevent himself from retching again. A bright streak drips down his chin. “I didn’t know.”


End file.
